The Other Bride

“Tomorrow,” Gabriel heard her whisper. “Tomorrow, I will be free.”

Free? He frowned. Free from the ship? Or something more?

Gabe scowled at his own musings. What had come over him? He didn’t have time for any of this. Tomorrow morning, the dummy shipment and the actual payroll would be transferred onto the boxcars bound for California. Before that could happen, he needed to brief his men, review guard schedules, meet with Josiah Burton.

Flipping his collar up around his chin, Gabe shook away the invisible sensual threads that had begun to bind him. He had a job to do, and he was determined to do it well. His name was at stake. His reputation. Moreover, he wasn’t the kind of man to keep company with someone of “quality.” He’d grown too crass and coarse for anyone from such rarified air—and he was honest enough to know he was the sort of man that mothers warned their daughters about.

But even as he would have retreated toward the rope ladder, he hesitated. A gust of wind brought a hint of sound that sounded suspiciously like…

Weeping.

Gabe would have been the first to admit that the sound of a woman’s tears generally tended to drive him in the opposite direction. But there was something about the noise, about the efforts Louisa exerted to keep her emotions private, that caused him to hesitate.

Hairs prickled at the back of his neck and he cautiously searched the darkness. What had happened? Was she in trouble? The woman had altered from joy to sadness so quickly that something must have affected her deeply. A terrifying memory, perhaps?

His jaw clenched.

He knew all too well how flashbacks from the past could arise without warning. He’d become an expert on such matters. Over the years, he had discovered that a hint of spring lilacs could wipe away the intervening years so that he was standing again in the orchard, staring down at the sprawled, battered bodies of his wife and son.

No. He mustn’t think about that now. He had to keep his mind on the job, only the job.

But as he took a step backward, he looked at the woman in blue and a wave of protectiveness surged within him. If she were being threatened or intimidated, he would…

What?

What would he do? He didn’t know the woman and he had no business interfering in her affairs.

Gabe’s hand tightened around the butt of his revolver and he hardened himself to the sounds she made. Blast it all, he was a man who prided himself on finishing a job without interference. If that were true, why had he allowed himself to be so easily distracted now, at a point in his career where one false move could mean the end of everything?

The woman’s sobs intensified, but Gabe steeled himself against their appeal for help and steadfastly stared at her back. He had troubles of his own to tend to. He didn’t have time to worry about those of a stranger.

And yet…

Damning himself for his weakness, he didn’t walk away. He couldn’t. Instead, he stepped forward, slowly, quietly.

Although Gabe could never have been accused of rescuing damsels in distress in the past, he reached into a pocket, removing a clean handkerchief. Shaking it free of its folds, he extended it to the woman over her shoulder.

She started, clearly unaware of his approach. But when she would have turned, he took her shoulders in his hands, forcing her to remain with her back to him.

“No. Don’t,” he said, so quietly that he wondered if she would hear. “Let the interference of a stranger remain just that…the actions of a stranger.”

He didn’t know where the words came from. His voice was gruff, telling. Kindness had become a foreign emotion to him. For so long he’d been angry at the world and most of the people who inhabited it. And yet at this moment, with this woman, he found his anger slipping away, leaving him bereft, hollow, and infinitely sad.

Long, long ago, in another lifetime, his wife had hated to be caught crying—and uncomfortable with such womanly emotions, Gabe had been happy to let her vent her grief in private. Now, years later, he didn’t think that he could bear to see this woman’s cheeks stained with tears. He didn’t want to remember her that way. Days from now, months, years, he wanted to recall the way he’d first seen her in the corridor.

Beautiful.

Happy.

The woman sniffed, taking the handkerchief. “Thank you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m not normally so…what I mean is I…”

Her hand waved in the air, a bright patch of white from his handkerchief and a darker, eloquent shadow caused by her gloves. Inexplicably, Gabe wished that her hands were bare. He wanted to see the velvety texture of her fingers. From his vantage point behind her, she was little more than a shadow. Only the lighter patch of her hair and a brief glimpse of the skin at the nape of her neck helped to remind him that she was flesh and blood.

Gabe’s heart floundered sluggishly in his chest. Years of avoiding even the barest hint of attraction seemed to dissolve, leaving him aching with loneliness. He suddenly felt like a shell of a man. The anger that he had carried with him left a taste on his tongue like ashes.

Dear God, what had this woman done to him? In the space of a few minutes, she had exposed his life for what it was—an endless struggle to forget. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But could it ever be anything more? He’d had his one chance at happiness, and through his own carelessness, his wife and son had died. It was his fault that he hadn’t sent them away to safety during the war. He should have forced Emily to leave their farm—or at best, should have ensured she’d had someone with her for protection.

A breeze caught at the tiny curls that had escaped the coils of the woman’s hair. The scent of lilies wafted around him, making him ache with sadness.

So delicate…so feminine…

So real.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t pollute her presence with his own. She was so clean and fresh, while he…he was a mere shell of a man, one who had brought more than his fair share of shame and pain upon his family.

Even as he tried to remind himself that he wasn’t worthy of a woman like this, a yearning began to pulse within him. He wanted to feel the softness of a woman against him, caress the velvety texture of her skin. But he soon realized that the hunger had far less to do with a sexual need than with a hunger for companionship and compassion.

Instantly, he shrank away from the idea. No. Hadn’t he learned his lesson already? Could he so easily forget that such indulgences could bring a searing pain along with the pleasure? Could he forget his responsibilities?

He was tired, that was all. He’d already decided that this would be his last job for the Pinkerton Agency. He’d grown increasingly restless within the structure the job required.

But where did he intend to go? What was he looking for that he didn’t already have?

Not a woman, surely. He wasn’t a man worthy of a good woman, and he’d already sworn to himself that he would never allow another female into his heart. He owed Emily that much. He might not have been the husband she’d needed during her short life, but he would grieve her properly now that she was gone.

Which was the very reason he needed to return to his duties and forget this woman, this moment.

But just as he would have released her, Louisa shuddered, and in that instant, he knew he had no recourse but to remain for a few minutes longer. If he didn’t, he would regret his aloofness for the rest of his life.

“I’m sorry,” the woman sobbed again.

Reaching out, he briefly laid his fingers on her arm. “There’s no need to explain.” He didn’t want to know what had upset her. Once he learned the cause of her pain, a bond, no matter how innocent, would be formed between them.

Louisa looked down, then took a shaky breath.

“I don’t know why I’m crying. I have everything ahead of me. Everything I’ve ever wanted.” She offered a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and pressed his handkerchief to her mouth. “I guess that the strain of worry has merely worn me down.”

Not sure how he should respond, Gabe stated, “You’ll be on dry land tomorrow.” Despite his matter-of-fact observation, he stroked her hair with his thumb, and one of the tendrils wrapped around his knuckle as if to trap him there.

She nodded. “Yes, but I still have a long journey ahead of me.”

“Eventually you’ll arrive at your destination.”

“I suppose that’s true. I’ll be glad when I have a home of my own.” Her tone was wistful.

A home of her own.

Gabe could understand the woman’s longing. There were times when he failed to work long and hard enough to exhaust himself before sleep. On those evenings, he remembered when he’d belonged to something other than himself.

A family.

Dear heaven, why think about that now?

Just as suddenly as he had been swamped with the need to follow this woman, Gabriel now had an overwhelming urge to walk away. In the scant moments they had been together, she had managed to stir emotions that he had buried in the same cold earth that now held his wife and son. If he didn’t leave her now…

He tore his hand free from the capricious tendril that would have held him captive.

“Will you be all right here alone?” Although he kept his voice a soft whisper, he couldn’t completely conceal his sudden brusqueness.

The woman stiffened in obvious embarrassment. “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry.”

She made a move to return his handkerchief, but he quickly said, “No. Keep it. You may have need of it sometime in the future.” And he didn’t need another reminder of how quickly this woman had infiltrated his defenses.

He hesitated only a moment, feeling that he should do more, offer more. But with a final light touch to her hair—an action that was more caress than dismissal—he retreated into the darkness, stepping behind a stack of crates.

He waited there for long moments, his heart pounding inexplicably, until he finally heard the rustle of silk.

Then she was gone, hurrying below deck, narrowly missing Gabriel’s hiding place in her haste.

Berating himself for being ten times a fool, Gabriel made his way to the skiff. He had a job to do, and he’d best be keeping his mind on the matters at hand. He didn’t have the time or the energy to worry about a mysterious woman whom he would never see again.

Nevertheless, as he rowed into the shadows, his mind returned irresistibly to the woman in silk and sapphires. What had brought her here to New York?

And what kind of freedom awaited her that would make her call out in happiness, then cry as if her heart were broken?

Dawn was still hours away when the woman stretched sinuously, her hand sliding over the cool silk of the sheets.

“I should go,” she murmured, lifting an arm to plant a kiss against the spine of her lover.

She wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t slept long. He was a restless creature—and with everything on his mind, he was bound to have a few sleepless nights. It was just that…

She stifled an inner sigh. What worried her was that he seemed removed and distant, even in the heights of passion—as if she weren’t enough for him.

Brushing the thought away, she ran her hand over his taut flesh. Scars crisscrossed his back, but she carefully avoided drawing attention to them. She had learned long ago that to caress them would cause a black mood to descend over his features. At those times, he could be cruel.

“Isn’t there a way you could arrange for the brides to take the train West?”

He grew tense and she immediately wished that she’d kept her complaints to herself.

“No.” His tone was curt. Cold. “From what I’ve been told, Gabriel Cutter is adamant. The mail-order brides will have to make other plans. He absolutely refuses to allow the women to make the journey.”

She frowned. The gold would be on that train. She could feel it. Gabe Cutter, the trail boss for the Overland Settlers Organization, had decided at the last minute that the mail-order brides would not be allowed to accompany the rest of the group—and his arbitrary decision merely strengthened her suspicions.

Damn that man and his meddling. Since it would prove suspicious for her to travel on her own, she had agreed to pose as one of the brides so that she could journey West with her lover. She’d been left out of so many raids against the Overland Express that she didn’t want to miss this one as well.

Her gaze darted around the luxurious hotel suite with its hand-painted frescoes, gilt and antique furnishings.

She loved money and everything it could buy. By becoming this man’s mistress, she’d been showered with riches such as she had never imagined. But she feared that her lover was beginning to grow restless—not with her, but with the effort of stealing so many payroll shipments. He had decided that this would be his last raid.

She shivered, knowing that there was more to the enterprise than mere greed. This time, with an old enemy guarding the shipment, the plots had become personal.

Her lover meant to have revenge.

Which was also her greatest fear. If he managed to punish Gabriel Cutter and ruin the man’s reputation, she feared that her lover’s darker needs might be met…

And he would suddenly find her superfluous.

No. She wouldn’t let that happen.

Biting her lip, she reached for her own clothes, knowing that it was past time she returned to the boardinghouse. Once there, she would begin her role as a mail-order bride anxious to head West.

She could only pray that someone would find a way to get Gabriel Cutter to change his mind and allow the brides to travel with the train as originally promised. She wanted—no, she needed—to be there when all of their plans came to fruition. Then her lover would turn to her again, this time in exaltation.

Chapter Two

The moment the woman formerly known as Louisa Haversham debarked from the ship, she donned her new identity. Although she was a few inches taller than her former cabinmate, she wore Phoebe Gray’s clothes. She’d claimed the other woman’s more modest trunks as her own, and had even signed Phoebe’s name on the ship’s register.

I am Phoebe in word, deed and thought, she repeated over and over to herself. Now and forever.

Despite the serious nature of her transformation, “Phoebe’s” heart was light as she joined the throng of people at the quayside and arranged for the delivery of her belongings to a local boardinghouse. Once there, she would meet the other mail-order brides destined for the Oregon Territory. Tonight she would sleep in a real bed with real pillows, and tomorrow she would board the train for the West.

Her steps were almost jaunty as she wove through the throngs of passengers eager to make their way into New York proper. She paused only once to turn and wave to her friend and fellow conspirator.

“Louisa” returned the greeting, looking every bit “the lady” in her silk visiting gown and tiny bonnet, and Phoebe knew her friend’s eyes must be snapping with mischief.

In the short time they’d spent together, Louisa had grown to love Phoebe Gray and look upon her as an adopted sister. The woman was impulsive, witty and nearly as headstrong as Louisa. But where Louisa tended to defy authority and carry her grudges like a badge of honor, Phoebe hid her frustrations with laughter, an eccentric imagination and a tendency for retribution.

Physically, Phoebe was very nearly Louisa’s twin, and throughout their journey, the two women had often been mistaken as sisters. They were of the same age, slim, fashionably pale, their features regally exotic. Mere inches separated them in height. But while Louisa had curly red-gold hair and eyes that were more blue than gray, Phoebe had deep auburn tresses and eyes that were more gray than blue.

So alike.

And yet so different.

Phoebe smiled ruefully. Her father would be appalled if he could see her now—blithely throwing away her birthright without a second thought and allowing a stranger to take her place. She’d kept only a few reminders of her past—the indigo gown she’d worn the night before, two sets of delicate underthings and two pairs of shoes. The items were hidden deep in one of her trunks, along with a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry and the signet ring her father had given her as a wedding present.

She grimaced. She doubted that the heavy piece had been a sentimental endowment. Instead, she was sure that the ring was meant to remind her of the name and title her father intended to pass on to her firstborn son. He would never discover that his daughter had abandoned his legacy until it was too late to rectify the mistake.

Pausing for a moment, she opened the catch to a carpetbag and withdrew the paper where she’d copied the boardinghouse’s address. There she would meet the eight mail-order brides who would make the journey by rail. Once in San Francisco, she would wed Neil Ballard—a simple farmer looking for a woman to take care of his house.

“Let go of me! Unhand me, I say!”

“Watch out, miss! Move over!”

At the sound of a scuffle behind her, Phoebe flattened herself against the wall. To her horror, she saw a grizzled old man being hustled down the street by a pair of uniformed policemen.

Phoebe recognized the old man instantly. Poor Mr. Potter. Halfway through the Atlantic crossing, the scruffy octogenarian had been discovered on board as a stowaway. Within minutes, he’d been locked in one of the lower cabins. He’d spent the remainder of the journey there or shackled in chains on the deck of the ship.

“Lass, lass!” the man shouted as he passed her. “Tell them I’m too old to be sent back to England. Help me, please! Don’t let them do this to me! I’m good for the fare!”

Startled, Phoebe found herself unable to say anything, so Potter turned his attention to the policemen on either side.

“If they’d only let me have a day or two, I could raise enough to pay for my passage. Tell them that, will you?”

But neither gentleman seemed inclined to listen. Instead, they bundled him into an enclosed wagon with iron bars over the windows. Phoebe could only wave to him as the team jolted into a quick walk and the vehicle lumbered away.

Inexplicably, the glow of the sun seemed slightly tarnished. What would become of Mr. Potter? He’d wanted to go West, and in that respect, Phoebe had felt a kinship with him. That was why she’d taken to sneaking him bits of food whenever she could.

“Out of the way, miss!”

She jumped, noting that she was about to be overrun by a pair of men attempting to load a heavy crate marked Farm Equipment onto a wagon. For a moment she stared at the men, noting the way their faces gleamed with perspiration and their bodies strained to lift the heavy box.

Eager to be on her way, Phoebe crossed the street, avoiding the foot traffic and buggies that tangled the thoroughfare. Although she would have enjoyed lingering on her journey to the hotel, time was of the essence. She needed to meet with the other mail-order brides and ensure that her trunks had been delivered. Then she would make a few purchases to augment those items from her friend’s wardrobe that had proved to be too small. She would need sensible shoes and hose, as well as needles, thread and other sewing supplies to alter the hems of those garments that were too short.

Phoebe hailed a hansom cab. Although she was “purse poor” and likely to remain so for some time, she decided that the extravagance would be worth the time saved.

Climbing into the cab, she clutched her carpetbag in her lap, straining to see as much as she could of the city through the narrow window. But even with the plethora of sights, she found her mind wandering back to the night before.

To the stranger.

The memory had the ability to make her skin tingle. How she wished she had found the courage to turn and face the gentleman who had come to her aid on the deck of the ship. He had been so kind….

And yet there was far more to the encounter than a chance meeting with an unfamiliar man who had offered her comfort. His nearness had thrilled her in a way she had never experienced before. From the moment he had spoken to her, she had been tuned to his nearness, his height, his strength. His muffled voice had been deep and warm, yet had retained a harder edge—like velvet over steel.

If only there had been more time.

If only she’d seen his face.

“Here you are, miss.”

The cabby pulled to a halt so abruptly that Phoebe was nearly jolted from her seat.

Her face grew hot. The time had long since come for her to gain control of her wayward thoughts. She was engaged to a farmer in Oregon. She had no business mooning over a stranger she’d encountered during her journey.

Straightening her bonnet, Phoebe jabbed the hatpin through the brim with a bit more force than necessary, then dug into her reticule for the amount she owed the cabby. She would do well to remember who she was. Phoebe Gray, a mild, hardworking Christian woman with a long journey still ahead of her.

Reminded of her new persona, Phoebe thanked the cabby for his efforts, adding a penny tip from her neat stash of coins. Hefting her satchel, she marched up the sidewalk and twisted the gleaming brass doorknob.

“Come in,” a distant voice called from within.

Stepping into the dim interior, she allowed her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, but even before they did, she absorbed the smells of lemon-scented furniture polish and baking bread.

A plump woman wearing a brown wool day dress, an oversize apron and a lace cap bustled into the room. “Hello, dear. May I help you?”

“Yes. My name is L—” Phoebe’s face flamed. Here was her first encounter with a stranger and she’d nearly made the mistake of using her real name. Never, never, never, she chided herself. You are Phoebe now. Phoebe Gray.

Clearing her throat, she began again. “My name is Phoebe Gray. I was told to meet with—”

Phoebe didn’t have a chance to finish. The woman began clucking in concern. Taking the satchel from Phoebe’s fingers, she looped her arm through her elbow and drew her irresistibly toward a narrow staircase.

“I’m Mrs. Cates, the proprietor.” She clucked again. “My dear, my poor, poor dear. You’ve arrived at last and just in time to discover that your journey is over before it’s begun.”

A moment passed before Phoebe caught the full meaning of what the woman was saying.

“Over? What do you mean, over? Did the Overland group leave earlier than planned? Did I miss the train?”

Mrs. Cates wagged her head and her many chins trembled. “No, dear. It’s worse than that. Far worse.”

Mrs. Cates steadfastly ushered her to the top of the staircase, but once there, Phoebe planted her feet and refused to budge. “Mrs. Cates, please. Tell me what’s happened.”

The proprietress sighed. “The other girls are in here,” she said, gesturing to a small sitting room visible through a pair of double doors. “I’ll let them explain everything, poor darlings.”

With that, she urged Phoebe forward and into the parlor.

Upon stepping across the threshold, Phoebe found the room cluttered with luggage and women. Like her, some of the girls were still dressed in dusty traveling suits, while others must have been in residence at the boardinghouse long enough to grow comfortable with their surroundings.

A quick count assured Phoebe that there were eight women present. The youngest, a delicate blonde who stared wistfully out the window, looked to be barely more than fifteen. From there, the average age of the women seemed to range from Phoebe’s twenty-one to a tall statuesque woman of at least fifty.

“Ladies, here’s the last of your group. Miss Phoebe Gray.”

The women turned to greet her. But even as they smiled or nodded, it was clear the mood of the group was glum.

“Miss Gray, may I introduce Twila Getts.” Mrs. Cates referred to the statuesque older woman with silver-blond hair combed sternly away from a center part. “She’ll be marrying a minister in Oregon.”